I'd love to tell you that my life is perfect; that I have never made a mistake or lied; that I've never been in love with someone who disregarded my existence; that I am the type of person who is always feeling great and always sees the positive side to things. Telling you that would be great. If any of it were true, it'd be even better.
I've always been the type of girl that you'd find in the background of a photo; the girl who's name you can't seem to remember when looking at your 3rd grade class picture. I'm not like any other girl; you see, ever since I can remember, I've been the odd one out. As a kid, when other girls were playing with their Barbie dolls, I was taking walks. While other girls were talking about boys, I'd be reading a novel that was far too advanced for anyone else of my age. Now, as a teenager, while other girls are busy putting on makeup, going to parties, and having sex as if they'll die tomorrow, I sit and dwell on my dreadful past.
I still remember all of it in perfect clarity. I wish I didn't, but I do. I was seven, Randy was nine. We used to share a room; he slept on the bottom bunk, and I slept on the top. That night, while Randy was sleeping vastly, I lay on my bunk, stomach up, staring at my ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars that I had were barely glowing, which I was thankful for because Randy used to complain about the glow and would wake up in the middle of the night to pull them off. I was mainly thankful because I was afraid of the dark, and when he'd pull them off, it was definite that I would not get any sleep that night; but more importantly, on that night, I didn't want Randy to wake up, because I was crying.
My eyes were burning with the tears that dwelled upon my eyelids, but the pain that burned beneath my chest was far worse. I couldn't talk to Randy or my mother about what'd happened. It seemed nearly impossible to tell anyone; I was overwhelmed with fear; I knew my father's strength. I'd never dare to test it.
But on that particular night, I'd felt the need to tell someone about it. I couldn't keep it to myself; I knew that if I did, I would suffer this same pain until my father or I was taken away: whether it be by the police, child services, or death.
My father entered the house and shut the front door so violently that Randy awoke, and then started yelling at my mother. Randy must've heard my weeps, because he climbed up onto my bunk and wrapped his arms around me. "Mickie, it's okay. Parents fight, its normal." It became clear to me that he was wrong about my reason for crying. I lay my head against his shoulder, soaking his favorite Spider-man pajamas with my salty tears, as he continuously stroked my brown hair.
I could faintly hear my father stepping around the house, my mother at a steady pace behind him, both of them yelling ferociously at each other. Randy pulled out of our embrace to look at me, and I felt it would be the right time to tell him; I just wasn't sure how to do it. "Randy?" His deep brown eyes looked into my hazel irises, a look of concern washing over his face. "I…I need to tell you something…" "What is it, Randy?" I struggled, thinking of a way to tell my brother that my father had been raping me for the past three months.
Another tear managed to slip down my cheek before any words came out. He brushed his thumb against my skin, obliterating the tear that had appeared. "Mickie… it's okay. You can tell me anything." I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, not wanting to see my brother's expression when I told him. "Randy… dad has been… hurting me for a couple months…" "What do you mean by hurting?" I felt Randy tense as he waited for my response. "He's been…raping me."
The last word came out so softly I thought that Randy may not have heard me. He didn't respond for several minutes, but managed to break the silence. "So, you're trying to tell me that dad has been… raping you for months and you haven't told anyone?" My eyes still closed tightly, I responded with a light "yes". Randy pulled me against him tighter, now slightly rocking me back and forth as I continued to cry. When I finally opened my eyes, I looked at Randy's face, noticing his eyes were closed as mine had been, and then over to the door, where my father stood with an expression of anger on his face.
"Oh, what a nice fucking moment. Get out of the room, now, both of you, and get into the living room." Randy turned over to look at my father, shielding his body in front of mine to protect me from the deathly glare my father was giving off. "What are you looking at, Randy? Get the fuck out, I mean it." I started to move my legs toward the ladder, afraid that my father would hurt me if I didn't, but Randy raised his hand up to me and pushed me back. My father looked at us with a surprised look for a few seconds, but the angry look returned soon enough.
He walked toward us, grabbing Randy by the shirt and pulling him out of the room. Randy was screaming frantically, and I could hear my mother screaming the same way. I took hold of my stuffed frog, and jumped out of the bed. As I was about to run out the door, my father stood in my way. "Where do you think you're going? You couldn't keep your little mouth shut, could you? You deserve everything you're given, you little fuck, and now, you're going to wish you hadn't said anything." As my father was shutting the door, I managed to run around him before he could stop me, and I sprinted toward the living room downstairs, where my mother and brother were sitting close and holding onto each other.
"Mom!" I yelled when I saw my mother. I ran into her arms, crying and shaking uncontrollably. "Oh, Mickie! I'm so sorry I never knew. You're brother told me; I'm so sorry baby" She pressed my hair down and ran her hand up and down my hair in a soothing motion until my father started down the stairs with a .44 colt in his hand. The gun looked familiar; my brother and father had been discussing different types of guns one day, and I sat there and listened to the conversation, fascinated by all the different types of guns and bullets there were.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, my dad stopped to look at the gun, and then at my mother. He started to speak, an almost comedic sound to his voice. "Well, Mickie, Randy, I brought you down so that we could have a little 'Family Game Night'. The game's called 'Shoot'. This is how you play; you find the person in this room who you think is a lying, cheating bitch –which, in this case, would be your mother- and you raise your hand like this," my father continued, aiming the gun at my mother, "and BAM! You shoot!"
He pulled the trigger as he spoke, a bullet encasing itself in my mother's chest. She collapsed forward, her blood seeping into our white carpet. Randy looked up at my father with a horrified expression as I fell onto the ground, next to where my mother's dead body was now laying. My father continued, "Next, you find the little fucker who sticks his head into other people's business. Being nosy has never gotten anyone anywhere, kiddo." He moved toward Randy, and lifted the gun up to his temple, pulling the trigger almost immediately after the gun had contact with Randy's head.
"Randy!" I screamed, running toward my brother without realizing that I'd made it easier for my father to get to me. I pulled his limp body up to mine, drenching my Barbie nightgown in his blood. My hand brushed over the hole in his head accidentally, and I could feel the depth of the wound, but continued to stroke his head, regardless of the feel. One step closer to me now, my father knelt and put his lips up to my ear.
"Finally, we have the 'innocent' little girl who didn't know how to keep her mouth shut. I told you you would wish you hadn't said anything. Your brother is dead now because of you. How do you feel? Guess what? It doesn't matter how you feel, because you'll be with him shortly." My father took the gun and shoved the cold metal against the back of my skull. I took one final breath, waiting for my life to end.
Within the next second, I heard a loud noise and felt my body collapse. It took me a few seconds to register that I hadn't been shot; I'd wondered why I still felt perfectly conscious. I turned over to see my father's body lying next to me, blood gushing from his skull. At the door stood two Police officers, one who still had his arm extended with a gun in his hand, the other rushing toward me. As he approached me, reality hit me; I was sitting next to three dead bodies, all of which were my family. After that, all I can remember is my world going black.
The End